Imbalance
by Dyslexic Angel
Summary: Three vignettes looking at the complicated relationship between Roy and Ed. Not yaoi.
1. Running

Running, running. Every hour of every day, that's what I'm doing, running. Ph, it doesn't look like that. Not when I'm sitting in front of the Colonel's desk, not while I'm reading in the library. My body doesn't run, but every fiber of my being is trying to escape. Trying to escape those looks of pity, or worse, those carefree smiles and laughs, or worst of all the glares of those with nothing left to lose.

Some days, I wish I were anything other than human. Look at what we humans do—theft and murder, taking everything only to find it isn't enough. Even worse, though, are the innocent. They have such a beautiful view of the world—one that will inevitably darken to cynicism, if it doesn't take their life. I covet that innocence, even as I hate it. It would be so simple, so sweet… and it would get me killed.

Some days, I don't think I am human. By weight, I'm nearly three-quarters metal, so it isn't much of a leap, but that's not my logic. With that reasoning, I would be more human than Al, and my baby brother is human completely. I wonder, if maybe the gate didn't take more for my brother's soul than just my arm. A soul for a soul—wouldn't that be justice? Perhaps that is gone now, hollowed out like Izumi's gut. All I know is how cold I feel, so detached. As though everything is unreal, and only brushes over me with the softness of moth's wings. Then I come to my senses, remember Nina, Rose, think of how much the stone has already cost. I realize I'm all too human, and it makes me want to throw up.

Running, running, all that I am is running away from the world. Trying to outrun my old shame, my tainted innocence, my metal arm, the hated metal pocket watch, my ruined human self that cant seem to break the cycle of destruction. For someone so intelligent, I can't do anything right. I couldn't bring back my mother. I couldn't save my brother. I couldn't stop Leore from fighting the military, or Scar from killing Nina. I cant' do anything else, so I run. You can't out run yourself. All that I am is running.


	2. Meetings

Always, he comes with the darkness. A short (but don't say it!) dark figure dressed in black, with a red coat and hood pulled up to hide his distinctive blond hair. He enter quietly, pushing open the door and letting the faintest beam of golden light into the empty hall. The other man is waiting before the fire, as usual, gazing into the flames, either hypnotized or remembering. The first man- a boy, really, for all he has seen takes advantage of the moment to admire how the firelight gilds his dark hair and unhealthily pale skin. Were it not for the frown that marred his features, the man would almost be beautiful. The dark haired man turns as the boy's metal leg clicks against the hardwood floor. His expression is calm, not cheerful. With the firelight behind him, he becomes the dark-haired demon he more than half believes himself to be.

"Why are you here, Elric?" the words are ritual, and there is no heat to them.

"Couldn't sleep. Why are you still up?" This is a pattern they have spoken many times before, and the words do not change.

"The same. Have a seat, Fullmetal." The blond pulls back his hood and sits, baring a strange half-smile.

"What if I don't want to?" But he is in an amiable mood, and the words lack bite.

"Then I'll make you." Roy's expression is still dark, and he sounds serious save for the barest hint of a reluctant smile playing across his lips. He takes a seat on the corner of the desk, perched like some bizarre hunting cat. Ritual complete, the two settle into comfortable silence. Both are just content to relax in the company of those who understand their peculiar scars.

Eventually, Ed will leave. Roy will bank the fire and return to his room. Both will smile and close their eyes just as dawn begins to brush the sky with molten gold.

IT is not always like this. Sometimes the blond boy will slip in to find Roy pacing, his jacket slung over a chair. On those days, he has only a moment to cast off his jacket and raise an arm to block. They will fight for hours, each doing their best to inflict as much damage as possible. Nothing is sacred, but neither will either man use alchemy. The fight will run until both are filthy, covered in sweat and sometimes blood, their clothes torn. In the end, it is almost always Ed who will end with his delicate metal fingers wrapped oh-so-lightly around the other's pale throat, and both will tremble slightly at the implied power in those fragile seeming digits. Those nights, both will hurry away, frightened of what they might have done.

In the daytime, they will meat again, watching each other through eyes smeared underneath with shadow. Opaque charcoal will meet unreadable gold. The two will share just the barest fraction of a smile, then everything will go back to the ordinary tension. Even in those moments, they do not like each other-- They only understand.


	3. Trapped

Trapped. No matter where I am, I'm trapped. The walls, the buildings, the very horizon seems to lean in to crush me. My subordinates never notice, while my superiors seem to smirk, taunting me with their power, their control. The military watch weighs me down like a ball and chain, but it's my only ticket to freedom. The only way to be really free is to be the one giving the orders, and for that it has to be military. That doesn't mean I have to like it.

Most people when they look at me, see an attractive man-- cold, but powerful. How many, I wonder, see only that coldness? I've ever had any real talent at reading expressions, but it's something I've worked so hard to master. But how does that help when I'm surrounded by accomplished actors, each more subtle than the last? Hell, I'm one-- I can't afford to show indecision, let alone fear. A commander must always be poised and calm. A commander must never bow to the worst the world can throw at us, while licking the boots of our superior officers. The military is a cruel trap-- they give us an impossible task, then bury us with pretty honers to placate those left behind when we fail. At least I don't have to worry about that for myself; I have no one to leave behind. That wasn't true for him.

Brigadier General Hughes, he is now. Ranks above me in death that he never sought in life. I still don't understand why he chose to serve under me, when he could have surpassed me easily-- gods know, I rue the choice in his memory. If he hadn't been helping me, hadn't learned whatever secret he gleaned, he wouldn't have been killed. But he was and he did, so now I have my best friend's blood as well on my far from pristine hands. There's a reason I wear gloves, other than the obvious—my hands will never be clean, but the white linen keeps me from sullying others. It can't stop me from killing them when even I can't, but they at least may die pure.

I have spilled so much blood. It covers my hands and runs in the macabre rivers in the dark dreams that woke me screaming in the night. I still remember, with the perfect clarity reserved for what you wish most deeply to forget. I remember every quaver of the doter's scream as she watched her husband die, the odd choked gurgle she made as her throat filled, the sickeningly bright crimson droplets hanging like philosopher's stones before falling to stain the floor around them. I remember too, the dark-skinned Ishbalans running before the waves of raging flame that ate and ate and did not die until only ashes remained. I remember Maes's death, the bullet in his heart and his already-drying blood ruining one of his beloved family photos. Worst of all was the expression on his face—agony and fear, stronger than I had ever seen them. His dull eyes seemed to accuse me. He was, perhaps, the worst of all.

He promised he'd help me come to power, and his promise binds me far tighter than my own. Were it only me, I would be content to fail, and lose no more. But with the debt I owe him? How can I? Thus I am truly trapped. The horizon is tightening around me, and will eventually crush me. I can only keep working at my impossible task, trying to atone. I am trapped.

AN: Didn't mean to take so long, the notebook took a vacation. This is just my take on Ed and Roy, though Roy's had an awful lot of Hughes in it.

REVIEW! Please?


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